Anonymous Source
by JennyLB
Summary: This story, an intermingling of "fact," fiction, and speculation, picks up immediately after Firewall and is Reese's journey to save Finch from Caroline Turning.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Walking in the Dark **

John Reese had narrowly escaped the hotel where HR and the FBI were upon him and Dr. Caroline Turning, the latest number called up by The Machine. HR was gunning for Dr. Turning, and Reese was determined to save the distressed young psychiatrist from imminent death. The FBI, lead by Special Agent Donnelly, had sent in an FBI team to finally close in on John Reese.

Donnelly was persistent.

Finch had steered John and Dr. Turning toward a service elevator that led to a tunnel, and John had held off HR as he sent Dr. Turning on her way to safety to meet Finch at the city's water treatment plant.

Reese had done his job, and he took his job of saving people whose numbers had been called up by The Machine very seriously. He and Harold Finch had worked together for almost a year, and they were developing a camaraderie often shared by friends—even though neither one had friends or even personal relationships.

As the gunfire between Reese and HR intensified, detectives Joss Carter and Lionel Fusco had come at the last moment to aid Reese in escaping HR's rapid gun blasts. They were getting pretty good at helping Reese out of intense situations. However, both Carter and Fusco were angry with Reese because he had neglected to inform them that they both were working for him.

Trust was an issue, John Reese had reminded them both. Carter had spent a good amount of time hunting him down, and Fusco had at first tried to kill him.

So he had left Carter and Fusco and was walking along the street to meet up with Finch at the water treatment plant to make sure Dr. Turning was safe. In order to blend in, John Reese causally strolled down the busy New York street. It was always about blending in, hiding in plain sight. As he walked down the street late that afternoon, his phone rang. He answered by clicking it open, saying nothing.

"You were set up, John. Turning isn't who we think she is." Zoe Morgan said into the phone to him. Zoe, a Fixer, had at one point been one of their numbers to save. However, now her special talents had been called upon by Finch to help out Reese in this particular case. Zoe was interesting in pursuing a relationship with John, so she obliged Finch's request.

"What do you mean?" John asked her.

"Her office…life. It's all a mirage. I saw the escrow transfer. She was the one who paid HR. She put the hit on herself. Turning must have learned how you operate. That you would show up if her life were in danger. She was trying to lure you out into the open," Zoe responded.

John's heart gripped tightly against his chest. He felt as though he was losing his breath. "She wasn't looking for me…she was looking for him!" John answered, clicking off his phone and shoving it into his pocket.

John Reese stood and stared down at the sidewalk. He didn't know which direction to head first or what his next step should be. Normally in these situations, he would call Finch. For the past year, Harold Finch had given him his marching orders, had helped gather the Intel, and had helped him navigate through difficult situations. Now he was alone.

All alone.

He had felt alone all of his life—except for the six month period when he and Jessica were together.

John, originally from Puyallup, Washington, had been born on May 1, 1972 to a 16 year old girl who refused to give up the name of the baby's father. Her strict Catholic upbringing wouldn't allow for an abortion, and her parents made her keep the baby as punishment for her indiscretion. In their eyes, she was a prostitute. She was their only child, and they had her late in their lives.

Her parents chastised their daughter for sinning against the church, and they blamed the innocent infant for ruining their daughter's life. John's deep-set blue eyes were a constant reminder to them that they had failed their daughter and that their daughter had failed God.

From that point forward, they emotionally disowned her.

When John was four, the only father figure he had ever known, his grandfather, died one day at the little grocery store that had been in his family for several generations. He fell to the floor behind the counter with a loud thump as several customers waited in line to have their produce weighed. He had suffered in silence with heart problems for years. His daughter's illegitimate son was the only son he had ever had.

When he was eight, his mother married a real estate developer and moved an hour and a half away to Mount Vernon. Even though he and his mother had not developed a close relationship, she promised her son that once her life got settled, she would come for him.

They would make a fresh start. They would get to know one another. They would finally be mother and son.

She never came for him.

His grandmother continued to run the family grocery store, forcing the boy to work the same long hours after school each day. They rarely spoke to each other. He knew what was expected of him, and he did that without questioning or refusal. They worked in silence, ate in silence, and walked home in the dark in silence. Each week, they attended Catholic Mass together in silence. Even though they were physically together, they were both alone.

By the time John was 10, he was keenly aware that his grandmother had taken his mother to court on several occasions to resume custody of her child. His grandmother resented her daughter living in the lap of luxury while she was saddled with her daughter's mistake…one that she could no longer afford to raise on her own. His mother would visit after each court appearance and tell her son to be prepared to leave with her by the end of the week. By the end of those weeks, John would anxiously await his mother's arrival at the small grocery store to take him away from the long hours of silence.

She never came for him.

By the age of 12, John was forced to deal with his grandmother's death alone. Unlike his grandfather, his grandmother had died suddenly in her sleep. There was no warning. John had found her alone and cold in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had hesitated entering her bedroom, but it was unlike her not to be sitting in her rocking chair, drinking her morning coffee. He had known something wasn't right.

The elders of the church fussed around his grandmother's home, preparing it for the impending traditions of a Catholic burial. They said very little to the stoic boy who sat alone at his grandmother's kitchen table. They whispered throughout the house that she had died of a broken heart, having nothing in her life to live for anymore. Her husband was dead, her daughter was gone, and the family's little grocery store was becoming overpowered by larger chain grocery stores being built all around them.

John felt confused and irrelevant.

His mother didn't come to the funeral service. She didn't come for him.

A week and a half after watching his grandmother being buried, a social worker loaded him up in her vehicle and delivered him personally to his mother and stepfather. His stepfather greeted the social worker with an indifferent smile as he reached out to take the small bag holding John's few belongings in his life. His mother stood in the background. She made no attempt to go to her child to hug him or even greet him.

Within a week, the police had been called to take John away from his stepfather's home with a complaint filed against the boy for a domestic disturbance. At 12, John was tall and thin and every bit as big as his stepfather.

But it was John's face that was bruised. His stepfather had not one mark on him even though his complaint described that the boy had attacked him for no apparent reason. His stepfather, an influential citizen in Mount Vernon, was incensed that his wife's illegitimate son would dare to attack him in his own home.

At the police station, his mother wore large, dark glasses covering her eyes and cheek bones. She, too, blamed John for the domestic disturbance. John never uttered a word even when prodded by social workers and police officers.

His mother didn't intervene with her husband's decision to send her son away to military school. John was packed up and delivered to the military school notorious for taking in troubled boys. Their strict ROTC program made men out of the troubled boys.

At 16, John looked and acted like a man. At 17, he received a telegram that his mother had died of cancer. His mother, the woman he hardly knew, was dead at the age of 33. He didn't even know that she had been sick. He felt no emotions that he could define or understand.

John's mother had never disclosed the name of his father.

By 18, John graduated from military school. There was no one in attendance at his graduation ceremony. He hadn't thought too much about it until he saw parents and grandparents swarming around and then loading their cars with their sons' possessions.

He then set out on a mission to try and find his father. Two and a half years and hundreds of dead ends into it, John gave up. So, on January 15, 1993, five months before his 21th birthday, John enlisted in the United States Army at Fort Lewis, Washington.

By the age of 22, he enlisted in the Army Special Forces. He had decided to make the military his career. In the military, John had found a sense of purpose for his life. Even though he was unable to trust individual people, he believed in the military and what they were calling him to do. Serving his country was the noblest profession he could have ever imagined.

Most young men like John who have difficult family lives form bonds with their fellow comrades. John, however, had always felt alone, and the military didn't change that. He bonded with no one.

At 29, John met and fell in love with Jessica. She was the love of his life, the only one who completed him, connected him to this world. On Friday, September 7, 2001, he quit the Army to extend his time with Jessica beyond their long weekend together in Mexico. He had given up everything to be with her.

Then on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 as he and Jessica lay in bed in a hotel in Mexico, 19 terrorists bombed the Twin Towers. John felt the call of his country and reenlisted shortly thereafter. Jessica had told him she understood and would wait for him. He told her not to wait. He didn't think he would return. Jessica knew that even though he loved her, he still had difficulty with human connections. She knew it was easier for him this way.

At the age of 30, the US military decided John's fate and put him on the path toward the CIA. On November 20, 2002, he was removed off the grid and listed as officially retired from the Army as a Sergeant First Class. During his nine year military career, John served four short and one long tours of duty. He received honors and medals for his valiant service.

He then began the rigid training for the CIA by serving in the Delta Force, one of two secretive Tier One counter-terrorism and Special Mission Units of this country.

After the 9-11 terrorist attacks, the United States scrutinized its intelligence gathering and identified serious shortcomings in its human intelligence capabilities. The CIA Director was then tasked with improving the human intelligence and other capabilities of the CIA, and as a result, the Directorate of Operations became the National Clandestine Service in October 2005. The NCS's primary function was to serve as the clandestine arm of the CIA and the national authority for the coordination, de-confliction, and evaluation of clandestine operations across the Intelligence Community of the United States.

And so, in 2006 at the age of 34, John was recruited by NCS and was partnered with Cara Stanton, a beautiful dark haired, brown eyed CIA Operative. She was tough and callous. At first, John was disconcerted by her "no time for questions…only answers" way of doing business, but eventually they bonded together over numerous secretive missions in the name of national intelligence.

It was Cara Stanton who named him.

Cara had told him that the name NCS gave him didn't hold up; however, John understood that naming something was also a form of ownership. But he didn't fight it. He actually preferred the name Reese to his mother's last name that he had been born into.

Cara and John worked together for four years.

In December 2010, John received a voice mail from Jessica after many years. He wasn't able to get to her. The CIA wouldn't give him leave.

He had failed her, promising he would be there. But he couldn't, and Jessica died by her husband's hands a few days before Christmas.

The CIA had sent him and Cara to China to recover a computer virus stolen by the Chinese from the Pentagon. However, both John and Cara had been secretly given by Mark Snow, their superior, the directive to take the other out because, as he explained to each of them privately, the other had been compromised.

John couldn't bring himself to shoot his partner, but Cara on the other hand, apparently didn't feel the same sense of dedication to her partner. Being wounded by Cara, John escaped China and covertly made his way back to the United States within several months. He needed to get to Jessica. By February, 2011, John made it to New Rochelle in search of Jessica.

He then learned that Jessica had been killed.

His world fell apart.

He had no other connection to this world. For several months he existed, homeless, on the streets of New York City. Blending in was how he had been trained to survive. He knew that if the CIA came to find out that he was still alive, they would hunt him down and kill him. At that time in his life, he actually didn't care. He had been searching for a more efficient way-other than alcohol-to end his existence.

At 39, John Reese had no one and nothing to live for. But worst of all, he no longer had a sense of purpose. He had no reason to live.

Then, for reasons unknown to him, billionaire Harold Finch saved him by offering him a job, a reason to keep living…a purpose for his life.

Like John Reese, Harold Finch was one of the most untrusting people in this world. He had his reasons, he would tell John.

They worked well together, gradually beginning to develop bit by bit a little trust in one another. Harold Finch was the closest thing John Reese had ever had to brother or a friend. He owed Harold for saving his life, and he took his obligations seriously.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for reading so far. I know the first bit is a little heavy with background and information, but I just needed to lay some groundwork to begin with. It will move along shortly...I promise. Let me know your thoughts! Again, thanks for reading. -Jenny**  
**

**Chapter 2: Evaluating Options**

As Reese stood at the waste treatment plant looking at Alicia Corwin's dead body sprawled out on the road with a gunshot through the back of her skull, he couldn't figure out how she was connected to Finch's disappearance. He remembered her in Morocco with Mark Snow right before he and Cara left for China for their last mission. This whole thing, with all its inner-connections, had to be beyond what he had ever thought possible. Whoever was behind all this was dangerous, and they probably wouldn't think twice about hurting or killing Harold.

His mind was racing in a million different directions. He needed Finch.

Now he was angry. How could he not have seen that coming? How could he have let this Caroline Turning…whoever the hell she really was…fool him like that?

As he walked, John Reese flashed on the numerous events during the past year in conversation between him and Finch. While Finch was still extremely private and guarded, he had occasionally entrusted Reese with some information about The Machine and himself.

The Machine, Finch had explained to him, was the billions of eyes and ears all around each American all the time. Finch had told him that the government gave itself the power to read every email and listen to every cell phone. Thus was the birth of The Machine. Relevant information of terrorist activity was supposedly passed along to the NSA or FBI, according to Finch.

The government had reasoned that the public wanted to be protected…they just didn't want to know how they were being protected. The reality was, however, that if The Machine were to ever be found out by the public, then the outcry would be unstoppable. The general public, the "Irrelevants," would riot against such a violation of privacy. So the government needed The Machine to be kept secretive in the best interest of the country, the seven government officials who knew about The Machine's existence had told themselves and each other.

John understood that at some point Harold Finch developed guilt over the Irrelevant List and had built a backdoor into The Machine, being given only the social security numbers of people who were in harm's way. This is where he came into the picture. Finch needed him to save the Irrelevants. But this was where Reese wasn't exactly sure what happened in the process. Finch received only a social security number by way of a phone call at a public phone booth. He didn't know who…or what…did that calling.

And Finch wasn't ready to confide in Reese. He continued to remind John that he had his reasons.

Reese inferred that Finch kept this information secret to protect Reese from whoever had tried to kill but only injured Finch several years ago. That's all he knew, but he continued to spy on Finch to try and put the pieces together.

So now, with Dr. Caroline Turning not who she said she was…and actually calling the hit on herself to lure them out, Reese suspected that whoever they were dealing with this time apparently didn't care who they killed in the process of getting at Finch.

So he kept walking. He didn't know what else to do. He couldn't sleep, couldn't think straight. He drank coffee and walked.

He kept walking all night. He was tired but couldn't sleep. By morning he decided to go back to the Library to see if there was something…anything…that might help.

Nothing. Everything was as Finch had left it prior to going to the water treatment plant to meet Caroline. What was he missing?

By noon, John remembered the payphone on the southwest corner of 49th and 6th where he had seen Finch correspond with The Machine earlier.

He abruptly left the library and headed to that payphone. What did he have to lose?

As he approached the camera, he didn't care who was around him or who saw him. He stared directly up into the Camera.

The Machine noted his presence: "Monitoring Asset: Reese, John."

Facing this unknown giant, Reese angrily stated, "He's in trouble now because he was working for you. So you're going to help me get him back."

The Machine received Reese through its voice detection. It responded appropriately, "Error. Continuity of Operations Compromised."

Continuing to stare directly into The Machine, John was sullen, angry, desperate.

The Machine responded, "Evaluating Options."

Then suddenly, the Payphone rang. John walked forward. He had no idea what to expect, no idea who or what would be on the other end.

John knew that Finch had in place a backup plan for the continuation of his mission to save those on the Irrelevant List if he were rendered unable to continue. But, Finch wouldn't share that plan with him. He had told Reese that it was safer that way.

Billionaire Harold Finch was at first not able to be identified by The Machine he had built. The Machine, with its infinite intelligence, had noted that it needed to search all known databases for Harold's identity. After some research, The Machine recognized Harold Finch as its Sysadmin, the one responsible for maintaining it. It found no other identity.

Finch had instilled in The Machine all sorts of knowledge and abilities…everything except Finch's true identity. The Machine's Contingency Plan also had a contingency plan.

Standing before The Machine at that moment, Reese didn't care what Finch's backup plans were. He needed The Machine to help him get Finch back. He demanded that The Machine cooperate with him.

Reese listened to the mechanical voice on the other end of the payphone. "Sysadmin in danger," the computerized voice said.

"Who the hell is this?" Reese shouted into the receiver.

The voice repeated, "Sysadmin in danger."

"Okay," John yelled, "Who the hell you are at this present moment doesn't really matter. You owe it to him…you owe him!"

The phone clicked several unidentifiable sounds into the receiver.

"You need to help me bring him home…damn you!" John shouted.

"Langley," the computerized voice stated then abruptly hung up.

John stood there with the receiver still balancing between his shoulder and his ear. He could hear the buzzing from the caller on the other end having hung up, but his brain hadn't quite caught up with what exactly was happening. In a few moments, Reese regained his conscious thoughts and hung up the pay phone's receiver.

As Reese made his way to his apartment on Baxter Street, he showered and changed clothes. He needed to get out of a suit and be prepared for combat. Then he got on his motorcycle to begin the two hundred and seventy three mile journey Langley, VA, using the lesser popular route to avoid potential travel complications.

Langley, VA was a place all too familiar to John Reese, the CIA Operative. His throat ached with dread at the thought of going back to Virginia to the CIA Headquarters. Being detained in Langley meant that the CIA was on to Finch and The Machine. He wasn't quite sure how, where, or even if he fit into that puzzle. His job at present was to save Harold Finch.

It was then the middle of the afternoon, an hour and a half into his journey. He was tired from not having slept the night before, and he had also forgotten to eat. However, he was determined to get to Langley as soon as possible to get Finch out of the danger he was in.

As John proceeded onto Route 222, a pair of high beam headlights flashed on his back and reflected off of his mirrors. They continued to blast his mirrors and burn through his sunglasses, making him squint.

"Shit!" John screamed into his helmet. He couldn't tell exactly who that was behind him that refused to pass or stay at a comfortable distance behind. It was an eerie feeling. John knew he had to figure out a way for the vehicle behind him to either be far ahead or far behind. This close behind him made John extremely uncomfortable.

As he approached a six lane tunnel, he was apprehensive about being in the tunnel alone with the SUV following so closely behind. He knew he had about six miles before turning again. The lack of cars on the road was unnerving to John.

He continued to press forward, taking the motorcycle up to 85 miles per hour. The black SUV tailed closely behind with its high beams continuing to blare into John's mirrors and then subsequently into his face. He could hear it getting closer behind. Revving his motorcycle's engine up to 90 mph, John began evaluating his options. Before his mind could process any thoughts, he felt the bullet tear through the top back of his left shoulder. Then he heard the blast of the gun. The gun's blast was what made him realize he had been shot. It then took several minutes for his brain to trigger his body that he was in pain.

He struggled to hold onto the cycle's handlebars. He had made it onto the ramp heading toward Reading, Pennsylvania. Then he heard a second blast. This one missed him. He soared into Reading with the SUV immediately behind him. It wouldn't be dark for quite awhile, and he was in no position to be able to veer off in another direction. Seeing the sign for Lancaster, he thought he might be able to lose them at the last minute if he were to suddenly turn off.

As the SUV inched closer, John turned the motorcycle to the right so the car wouldn't be directly behind him. Then, he took a sharp right and headed to the verge separating the two highway roads. His maneuver worked. Turning into the verge, John dodged signs, rocks, and flowers in the verge. He could hear the SUV's breaks squealing as its inhabitants must have realized that he had shaken them. He needed to get back to the road in order to get his speed back up. He could see the SUV in his mirrors; they were heading toward him at a high rate of speed. John believed that there was no way they would chance the grassy verge between the two highways.

He was wrong. They were attempting to follow him as he re-entered the highway, and they had almost caught up with him again.

The next thing John realized, he was flying across the road and sliding across the asphalt, landing beside the large pillars holding up an overpass above him. Large chunks of gravel jutted into his back through his brown leather jacket. He coughed through his helmet, reaching up to try and remove it from his head. He left it on for now. He could see the shadows approaching him as the figures emerged from their SUV to where John lay near the pillars of the overpass above him. He tried moving, but his body was sore from the impact. Turning his head to see who was approaching him, John didn't recognize them personally, but professionally they looked like the prototype of CIA.

The larger of the two agents stated as he bent down and ripped John's motorcycle helmet off his head, "We're here to take you home, Mr. Reese."

His partner, significantly smaller than the first agent, said nothing as he stood immediately behind. John could tell which agent was in charge.

With him and Cara Stanton, she always took lead. As Reese's CIA Handler, Cara liked to do a lot of the talking, and she preferred to be the one standing in front. John was okay with her assuming the lead and authority. They had worked together long enough that they were the perfect partners, complimenting each other's moves and directions. They knew what the other one was going to do or say without needing to discuss anything in advance, and they became inseparable.

John could hear another car pulling over near them. He turned to see who it was. It looked like a family on vacation; the rack on top of their jeep was loaded down with suitcases and black trash bags full of stuff.

"We have this under control, sir. Go on about your business," John could hear the larger agent say to the man who had gotten out of his jeep, leaving his family straining from inside their vehicle to see what was going on. Both agents flashed their badges. The man backed up and got into his car and sped away.

The smaller agent stepped up and pulled John to his feet up off the gravel.

His head pounded. The gunshot wound in his shoulder sent shooting pains down into his arm. John's motorcycle lay askew against the overpass's middle pillar. He had really liked that cycle. What a shame that it looked like he was going to lose it.

"Hey, gentlemen," John stated, "Not so rough. You can take it easy."

"We know about you, and we have strict orders to get you back…dead or alive," the lead agent said, putting his face directly into Reese's.

Both agents pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed them together. This action made him shudder with pain from the gunshot wound in his shoulder. They then shoved Reese into the backseat of their SUV. Reese's brain began running through what options he had for getting himself out of this dire situation. First things first: getting himself out of the cuffs. Paperclips. Wires. Anything of that sort would do.

Nothing.

As they started up their SUV with Reese in the backseat, he continued to analyze his situation. His options were pretty limited.

The dominant agent drove as the smaller agent placed a call. "Package obtained," he said in a monotone voice into his Smartphone.

Reese had heard that term, package, on numerous occasions on CIA missions when he and Cara had been sent off to detain people. But he detested being referred to a package himself. As they sped down Route 222 back toward New York, John closed his eyes to control his breathing. His muscles ached from his impact on the asphalt. His main strategy at that moment was to be in control of the pain and then in control of the two agents in the front seat.

Within an instance, the smaller agent flew forward, blood spewing from his head and shards of glass flying throughout the SUV. His partner swerved the SUV then had the presence of mind to throw down on the gas. The dominant agent was in trouble, and he knew it. His partner had been killed instantly.

Reese turned around to see who was in the second vehicle shooting at them. He guessed it could be worse than the CIA…maybe HR, the mob, FBI. Hell, it could be anyone at this point. The black tinted windows revealed nothing to the CIA agent and his captured package handcuffed in the backseat.

Going over 90 miles per hour, the black-tinted window vehicle made its way alongside the driver's side of the CIA SUV. The two cars drove side by side, forcing out of the way a civilian vehicle that had the misfortune of being in their path. Then the vehicle slammed into the side of the CIA SUV, forcing it off the road. The agent slammed on the breaks, skidding into the loose gravel on the roadside, flipping the SUV over until it landed on the passenger side. The sudden inertia threw John to the right side, his head slamming into the window. He could feel blood dripping down the side of his face. He struggled to maintain his balance with his wrists cuffed behind his back.

Then Reese could hear another gun blast and feel the sprays of more shards of glass as they flew throughout the SUV. He saw the larger agent's head jolt with the impact of the bullet into his brain. Then he stopped moving. His partner, who had been killed first, continued to sit motionless, confined in place by his seatbelt. The SUV's entire front seat was cloaked in blood and broken glass. Whoever was in the second vehicle behind the black tinted windows had no difficulty taking out two CIA agents who were on a mission to bring back one of their own who had been presumed compromised and then dead.

John breathed hard. Whether or not he understood it, he was frightened. He slowly moved to try and free himself from the SUV, concerned that any sudden movement would alert the person in the black tinted windows that there was still life in the CIA vehicle.

His ears continued to ring with the blasts of the previous gunshots. His head throbbed, and his shoulder continued to bleed down into his arm and back. He heard and saw nothing coming from the black-tinted window car as he dragged himself partially out of the SUV's back window and onto the road. He breathed heavily as he closed his eyes against the sunlight and continued to inch his way out of the SUV.

Then he felt the cold steal against his temple.

"Get up," a voice said.

Wait a minute. He knew that voice. He had spent a lot of time with that voice during his four years with the CIA.

It was Cara Stanton.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Ghost in the Machine**

He finally freed himself from the SUV, putting his head down on the asphalt. He could feel her continuing to stand over him. The shadow of her drawn gun rested beside his face on the road.

But she was dead, wasn't she? The CIA had killed her, hadn't they?

"What do you want, Cara?" John asked as he slowly and painfully sat up, looking directly up at her. He squinted against the direct sun as it peered into his face. Blood from the cut near his temple continued to run down his face.

Cara remembered that he was always a heavy bleeder. His wounds had always looked worse than they actually were, though. "I'm here to help you, John," she answered.

"Then why do you have your piece pointed at my head?" John asked.

"I know you, John. I know you probably better than you even know yourself," Cara said, lowering her firearm but still keeping it drawn.

As John continued to squint up at her, the sun was beginning to burn his eyes.

"I knew you wouldn't trust me, and I need you to come with me now. We need to get out of here before any local law enforcement might show up. I would hate to see more causalities," she warned.

Cara pulled John up by his elbow off the road. He groaned as her pulling forced his gunshot shoulder to be stretched too far outward.

"Sorry," she offered as she saw his face contort with pain.

She could see him struggling against the handcuffs. She did care for her former partner and was remorseful for shooting him on their last mission in China. She did what she needed to do at the time, she reasoned.

As John stood against the wrecked CIA vehicle, Cara saw him looking back and forth between her and her car. She knew he was running through his options in his head. That's what they had been trained to do.

"John, I need you to trust me. I'm here to help you. I'll put the gun away as soon as you'll listen to me," she said. "Please get into the car. I'll help you get the cuffs off."

She could see the reddened, bruised skin on his wrists around the cuffs and remembered how relentless he always was. He was a master of escape, so she knew that if she were going to get him in her vehicle, then she had for now needed to keep him restrained and keep the gun on him.

"What do you want Cara?" John repeated.

"I told you...I'm here to help you...to take you to Mr. Finch," she answered. "That's what he tells you to call him…Finch…right?"

John's shocked expression surprised her. She wasn't surprised that he hadn't made the connection yet, just surprised that he wasn't guarding his facial expressions. The John Reese she knew for the past four years would never have allowed his guard to drop…no matter who he was around.

Cara Stanton and John Reese had become close during their four years together in the CIA. Their partnership was based on mutual respect and concern for one another. Cara had developed feelings for John, and she had made her feelings known to him. However, they had never become intimate…had never crossed that line. John Reese was emotionally unavailable to her and everyone else in his life. She knew he loved another woman despite her warnings that he had no old friends anymore.

"Trust me, John, I'm here to help you. I'm going to take you to Langley to get Mr. Finch back," she said.

He just stared at her. He couldn't figure her out.

Cara watched his facial expression change and knew that he was trying to figure out exactly what to think…and what to say to her.

"I know you're confused now, but once we get to Langley, it will all make sense," Cara offered. "You just need to trust me."

"That's going to be difficult, Cara," John answered.

"I understand," she said. "Just go with me now and we can work on our trust."

John turned as he heard sirens in the distance.

"You don't have a choice, John. Come on, let's go!" Cara said.

John relented, walking toward her car. With each step, his body ached.

Cara helped him ease into the passenger side of her car and then closed the door behind him.

He shifted in the seat to try to get comfortable with his arms still restrained behind his back. He knew he was quite possibly making a mistake, but he also needed to get to Langley to get Finch back, and right now Cara Stanton offered that to him. John watched as Cara put the gun in her left jacket pocket. The gun was off him but still put away in a pocket furthest from him. He knew she was right handed, so this was a sign to him that she also didn't trust him. Regardless, he was still handcuffed, so it made that act pointless.

John put his head against the window and closed his eyes. He somehow needed to block out the pain. He was beginning to feel light-headed. Blood still trickled down his face. With closed eyes he stated, "Cara, I need you to tell me what the hell is going on."

"Okay, John," she answered. "But first I must ask, exactly how well do you know this man you call Harold Finch."

Alarmed by the question, John opened his eyes and sat up straight. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know it's a simple question. I know who he really is, and I just need to know if you do," she responded.

John knew a few details about his boss, the man who had saved him from slow suicide, the man who gave him a second chance. He knew that Harold was deeply private and had his reasons, which he hadn't yet shared with John. He also knew that the two men were bit by bit beginning to trust one another.

"I don't know anything about him," John answered. He certainly wasn't going to tell her what he did know.

"Okay…so you're not ready to trust me. So let me tell you this. Remember our last mission in China to retrieve a computer virus when we were both supposed to take each other out?" Cara asked.

John turned to look at her. He didn't state the obvious that she had actually tried to follow through with her directive and had shot him. He focused on keeping his facial expression solemn.

"So let me help you here, John," Cara offered.

John continued looking at her.

"Do you remember back in 2008 in New York City when we were holding captive that government employee for trying to sell some software to the Chinese?" she asked.

"Yes," John answered. "We held him tied up in the bathroom. Mark came and we were given some R&R."

"Yes," Cara stated. "Well, he was a traitor and sold top secret information about a machine to the Chinese...and he wasn't just any government employee. The man we had detained and tied up in the bathroom was Deputy Director Denton Weeks, the man in charge of that project."

Cara paused to gauge John's reactions to what she was telling him.

John remained stoic.

Cara continued, "What he sold was programming for a machine so intelligent, so powerful that it has the ability to spy on every phone call, every email, every social media site, every electronic transaction, every video camera. And, it has the ability to sift through all that information to predict crimes before they actually happen. The Machine's purpose is to detect terrorist activity so it can be prevented...so they say."

"So they say?" John asked.

"So they say," Cara answered.

John focused hard not to alter his facial expression. He didn't want her to know that he already knew about The Machine. He casually asked, "So you're saying that this Deputy Director Weeks was in charge of a project to create some powerful machine that predicts terrorist activity and then sold its programming to the Chinese?"

"Yes," Cara confirmed.

"And we were sent in to retrieve it…only we weren't supposed to make it out. Why kill us?" John asked.

Cara noticed that John was a little nonchalant about the machine. She infered that he already knew about the machine's existence. "Because Weeks confessed to me what he did. He told me about the machine. I knew what we were going after on that mission. It took the Chinese two years, but they must have actually completed building a machine of their own," Cara said.

"So, you really had been compromised?" John asked.

"Yes," she confessed.

John stared at her to try and figure her out. He must not have known her as well as he thought he did. She must have interrogated and tortured Weeks into giving up what he knew and what he did, but she never confided in him, her partner.

"Then Snow found out that I knew, and he must have thought that I had told you as well…or he just didn't want to take any chances…so we were targeted, too," Cara added.

John didn't immediately respond. After several minutes he asked, "Targeted, too? Who else has been targeted because of this machine?"

"Only seven were supposed to know about that machine, and they were beginning to even shorten that list. So we became a liability," Cara stated.

"You were the liability," John said.

Cara didn't respond to that statement. "Remember when we got to China and the drives had already been taken?" she asked.

John recalled the numerous dead bodies of the Chinese software engineers lying all around the building. He recalled the one engineer who was still alive that Cara had killed. "He didn't ask to be relieved from pain, did he Cara?" John asked.

"No, he mentioned The Machine. He said that it had already been taken," Cara answered.

"Who?" John asked.

"He didn't say," Cara answered.

"Because you killed him," John interrupted.

"Yes. I couldn't risk it," Cara stated.

John understood what she really meant was that she didn't want him to find out what she knew. Then John remembered what they had found. "The laptop? We found a laptop. I had it, but after I escaped, it was no longer in my bag," he said.

"I took it. I knew I might need leverage if I were ever going to get myself out of that situation," Cara answered.

"Leverage?" John asked.

"Yes, and I was right. It is my only bargaining chip. It's keeping me alive right now," she said.

"Do you remember who was in the motel room that night Snow sent us on that mission to China?" Cara asked.

"Yes," John answered.

"That woman, Alicia Corwin, has been on the run for two years now. She was the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs and was the liaison between the government and IFT, the software company headed up by the presumed creator of The Machine, Nathan Ingram," Cara stated.

John shook his head up and down as he then understood why Alicia Corwin's dead body would be at the water treatment plant.

Cara recognized that he was making some connections.

"Ingram?" John asked. Then he remembered the book in Finch's library, _The Ghost in the Machine_, and the picture of Finch as a young man with another young man. _"In the beginning. N.I."_ was written across the photograph's back and placed in that book. Now it made sense to him. How fitting for Finch to put that picture in that particular book. Reese let out a small laugh at the irony. "Dualism," he laughed to himself.

Cara didn't understand what he was saying. After a few minutes she stated, "I don't believe that Ingram is really dead. I believe that it was actually your boss who created The Machine. Ingram was only the front man."

John remained silent. Finch had already confided in him that he had built The Machine.

Cara continued, "After Ingram was thought to be killed in 2010, Corwin went into hiding."

John responded, "Cara, I don't know anything about a machine. I don't know a Nathan Ingram. I don't even know anything about this man who hired me as his body guard. That's all I am to him…just his bodyguard. He's a rich, paranoid insurance broker. That's all."

"John, I've been tracking you. I know what you do...what you both do. I know you know more than you're admitting to. It's okay, you don't have to trust me right yet. But I am here to help you get him back. He's too valuable of an asset to allow the CIA to get him. I'm taking you to Langley. You can trust me," Cara said softly as he took the exit toward Baltimore.

John responded, "So what does Caroline Turning have to do with all this?"

"She's connected with the CIA, John. I don't exactly know her angle, but she took Mr. Finch for the CIA. She's coldblooded… and… dangerous.

John thought that her description of Caroline was fitting of herself.

"I can help you get him back," she said.

"Why do you want to help me?" he asked.

"Because we were partners," she answered. "I believe we can still be partners."

"How did you know where to find me…that the CIA had me? How do you know all this, Cara?" John asked.

"From an anonymous, very reliable source," Cara answered.

John had heard that often from her in their four years together. "It doesn't make sense," John calmly stated.

"It will," Cara answered.

"He can't physically defend himself, Cara. He's had an accident and walks with a limp. His spine was broken and fused together, so his neck has limited movement, too. He's not capable of…" John trailed off.

Cara remembered that John had always had a weakness for children and the helpless. The only time they were ever at odds with one another was when he had refused to carry out orders that detrimentally affected someone who wasn't able to defend him or herself. She always had to take control during these situations. She always thought nothing of them being among the causalities of a mission.

John, on the other hand, would always defy those orders.

Cara had always resented him for what she believed was a weakness. But, conversely, she respected him for never wavering on his convictions. She glanced over at John, remembering how striking his physical appearance was. She had always been attracted to him, but he had maintained a safe distance from her. She noticed that his eyes were getting heavy. Blood from his gunshot wound had saturated the arm of his shirt and was beginning to creep towards his chest. The blood on the side of his face from the car wreck had dried along his hairline. He had several places on his face and neck where shards of glass had flown into his skin.

"John, we need to stop to take care of your injuries," she stated. "You probably have a concussion. You really shouldn't sleep. We need to stop."

"Keep moving," he mumbled.

"You're losing a lot of blood. You won't be any use to Mr. Finch if you're dead…or too weak to get in there to save him. We need to treat the bullet wound. I'm going to pull off at the first motel I can find," she stated.

Reese closed his eyes and leaned against the window again. He hadn't intended to go to sleep, but the next thing he knew, Cara was opening the door and helping him get out of the car. She held him around his waist and led him into the room of the motel she had apparently booked for the night.

She sat him down on the foot of the bed so she could get behind him to remove the handcuffs and get to his gunshot wound. She then began painstakingly peeling off his jacket and shirt. She could tell he was in pain. She filled the ice bucket with warm water and retrieved all of the rough, dingy white towels hanging in the bathroom and the sink outside of the bathroom. This was not the first time she had removed a bullet out of him.

Digging through her purse for a lighter and pocket knife, she burned the knife's blade to purify it of germs.

John watched her take great care in cleansing the knife.

"You know the drill," Cara said sternly to him.

Without moving his head, John raised his eyes to look up at her. He knew that she had at one time cared for him. He couldn't reciprocate, though. His heart ached for Jessica. He knew that she knew why he wouldn't respond to her advances, which angered her and compelled her to continue to warn him that he could never go back.

As he sat on the corner of the bed with his back to her, he could feel her cool hands on his back and shoulder. The pain was intense as she dug into his muscle to retrieve the bullet. After several minutes, she threw the bullet onto the nightstand. Pouring warm water over the wound, she lightly patted the wound with the towel and then held the towel tightly against it to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.

"The bleeding should stop soon," she said. "Hold this towel against it so I can survey the damage to your face and head."

Reaching his right hand over to his left shoulder, John did as he was told. The wound continued to feel as though it were on fire. John continued to grit his teeth against the pain.

She poured water on a wash cloth and began washing his face, gingerly working her way around the gash near his temple and the cuts where the glass had imbedded in his skin. As the cloth would fill with blood, she would walk over to the sink to rinse and wring it out. Wiping away a lot of the blood, Cara noted that John had just the one wound near his temple and five glass cuts in his face and neck. She took out her tweezers and began pulling the glass out of his skin.

John thought to himself that she must have looked like an emergency room doctor. That vision seemed paradoxical to him as he was quite aware of the death and destruction she had behind her. He was beginning to feel unsteady and queasy. "How much longer?" he asked.

"Almost finished," she answered. With a final once over with the cloth, she stepped back to get a different perspective. She had never been tentative about touching his blood. "Stay awake, John," she ordered, walking over to the sink to wash her hands.

"I'm awake," he answered.

"Are you feeling sick?" she asked, now standing beside him, placing her hand on the back of his neck.

"Just tired," he lied. He then lost the battle to keep his eyes opened.

"Just hang in there a little longer," she insisted.

He looked up at her, saying nothing.

After looking into his eyes to see if they were dilated, Cara stated, "I don't think you have a concussion. I need to see if there are any more pieces of glass or cuts. With both hands, she began running her fingers throughout his scalp. His close cut, dark hair made it easier for her to locate any stray pieces of glass.

John began to weave from his seated position on the bed.

"Hey!" she shouted.

He didn't respond.

She knew he was spent. Placing one hand on his back and one on his chest, Cara gently pushed him down onto the bed into a reclining position. His legs continued to remain in their seated position. Reaching back behind him, she adjusted the discolored motel towel so it was directly under the gunshot wound.

John was lightly breathing as he lay on the foot of the bed.

Cara continued to stare at him for a few minutes. His physique was every bit as beautiful to her as it had been during their time together. As she watched him, she felt remorseful. "John, I'm sorry for all this. You don't deserve any of this that has happened to you," she whispered as she pushed upwards onto the top of his head the hair that was stuck to his forehead.

He jumped slightly at her touch, partially opening his eyes.

Cara noticed that he appeared disoriented as his eyes looked around the room.

John wasn't used to tenderness—especially from Cara Stanton. He had only allowed Jessica into his life in that way…and their love affair was brief.

"It's okay, John," she whispered. "If you want to get some sleep, I'll go out and get some peroxide, bandages, and a clean shirt and jacket for you."

John gave up again, fully closing his eyes, exhaling deeply.

Cara then took the covers off the other bed and put them around John. Removing his shoes, she left the room and jumped in her car to go and retrieve the items she had promised him she would get. She threw his shoes into the backseat of her car. Exhaling deeply, she then took out her cell phone and started typing a text message: "Significant blood loss."

Within moments she received a text back. "Keep alive long enough to seal the deal."

"Understood," she texted back. She felt a twinge of guilt then pushed that emotion aside. She had loved him, but love was an erroneous emotion. She was a part of a larger plan, and her former partner was a much needed tool in that plan.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Behind Enemy Lines**

When Cara returned to the motel, John's breathing was loud and rhythmic. He was in a deep sleep. She sent another text, "All is well. Be there tomorrow."

She gently took the blanket off him and turned him to his side to apply a bandage to his shoulder. His breathing never altered its steady pattern. The bleeding had stopped. That was a good sign. He was one tough man to endure all the bullets, gashes, beatings, electric shocks, needles, fires...and whatever else that came his way...that she knew he had had to endure during his time serving his country and working for the man he knew as Harold Finch. Turning him back around, she applied a small bandage to his forehead. He probably wouldn't have bothered bandaging up that wound, but she felt that it was deep enough to warrant some of her attention.

She lay in the other bed, thinking about him. They had been through a lot together. He was an excellent agent—unlike her partner before him, Wilson, who was unable to get the job done. She had taken Wilson out and thought very little about it. She rarely—if ever—thought about Wilson. However, shooting John while on their last mission together in China had haunted her. She remembered his face as he realized what was happening and that she had betrayed him. His face stayed with her.

As Cara lay there, she could hear his quiet mumblings while he slept. Inaudible words continued to escape from him. His tone was getting more adamant as he slept. She wasn't sure how to respond. As he tossed back and forth, she got up to get some Ibuprofen and a glass of water to take to him. She also wanted to check him to make sure he hadn't developed a fever. Touching his forehead, she determined that he felt fine. "John," she said, shaking his right shoulder to try and rouse him, "take these. They'll help ease your pain so you can sleep better."

Barely conscious, John took the four orange-brown tablets from her hand. His eyes were less than half-way open. Leaning his head back to drink the entire cup of water, she realized that he probably hadn't eaten anything in awhile. She went to the sink to fill up the cup again with more cool water.

"Do you feel like you can eat something?" Cara asked. "I can go to the motel diner to see if they have something you feel like you can eat."

"I'm just thirsty...and tired," John answered as he drank the second cup of water.

"Okay, John," Cara said. Get some sleep. She helped him lie all the way down in the bed, adjusting the bedspread around him. Within a few moments, his rhythmic breathing resumed. She lay down in the other bed and closed her eyes. This current situation was certainly not new to either of them. She was his CIA handler and the agent in control and in the lead, but he had usually been the one who took the brunt of the physical altercations they had with the subjects of their missions. Cara was also an skillful fighter, but John's physical abilities were some of the best in the CIA. Rightfully, he took the lead when it came to physical combat. He had always protected her from physical harm. She then closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.

They both slept soundly the remainder of the night.

John awoke the next morning in pain all over his body. He didn't immediately remember where he was. He had stayed in hundreds of motels and by-the-week rentals throughout his life that after awhile, they all looked, smelled, and felt the same. As he tried to sit up, his left shoulder shot fiery pains down his arm. He then remembered the gunshot wound to his left shoulder, the motorcycle accident, the SUV accident…and then Cara. Looking around the room, he spotted her sitting at the two-seater glass top 1970's style table sipping coffee from the motel Styrofoam cup.

He shot her a quick, half-smile.

"Care to join me?" she asked him. She looked the exact same as she always had—a beautiful, confident woman.

He sat up all the way on the bed, removing the cover that he had been burrowed in. He could feel a bandage on his forehead and shoulder. She must have applied them while he was sleeping. Even though she appeared quite callous, she had always taken good care of him when he had been hurt. He had missed that part of their relationship. He didn't remember much of the evening before—just Cara cleansing the knife with fire and pulling the shards of glass out of his face and neck.

Cara poured a cup of coffee and held it up to him. She guessed that it would probably take him awhile to get over to her, so she placed it down at the top of the placemat at the other chair across from her. She smiled at him, displaying her rarely seen warmth in her eyes.

Sitting on the corner of the bed, John prepared himself to stand. Trying not to let groans escape as he stood, John was conscious of maintaining his tough persona with her. As he stood, he noticed his shoes were gone. All he had on were his pants. He then remembered his bloody shirt and jacket that she had peeled off him the night before.

Cara saw him suddenly become aware of his lack of clothing and motioned toward the bag sitting on the dresser beside the television. "I got you a new shirt and jacket. Yours are ruined. You had a lot of blood loss," she said.

"Thanks," John responded. Still shirtless and shoeless, he inched his way to the table and sat down across from her.

She motioned to the cup of coffee sitting before him. "Much longer...then I would have had to heat it back up for you," she laughed.

John smiled up at her.

She had always loved his smile. It was rare, though.

"Do you still take it black?" she asked.

"Yes," John answered. He felt hungry but slightly nauseous.

Cara was eating pastries from a white paper bag. She held up a pastry toward him. He reached out and took it from her. "See, that wasn't so bad. You can trust me again, John," she cynically said.

John took a bite of the blueberry pastry and sipped at the motel coffee. Ordinarily, he wasn't picky. But, the motel coffee was barely tolerable, and his face showed his displeasure. Being trained to pay little attention to his taste buds, John was accustomed to poor-tasting food and beverage. Between Jessica and Harold, John had spent several months eating at soup kitchens and church food pantries. Now, though, he was beginning to do better for himself because, for the first time in his life, he had an apartment, which Finch had given him for his birthday. He now had a refrigerator of his own and didn't have to eat canned foods or other pre-prepared meals like what he had become accustomed to in his military service.

"Yeah, the coffee's not great, but it came with the room," Cara laughed, taking another large gulp.

John took a few more sips. He needed the caffeine, hoping it would help his pounding head. "We need to head out soon," John said. "I'm worried about Harold."

"Okay, I'll shower and then we can go," Cara answered. "You probably shouldn't, or I'll have to change your bandages again."

Turning with his back to the mirror, John looked at the bandage on his shoulder. "It's big enough," he sarcastically said, peeling off the one on his forehead.

"Bandage yourself next time," she joked.

It had felt like old times to them both.

"Where are my shoes?" John asked.

"I put them over by the door," she answered. They were between her bed and the wall near the door.

John knew why she had removed his shoes and then placed them where she had. He knew she must have taken them with her when she left the motel, believing that being shoeless might act as a small deterrent if he had contemplated heading out without her. Placing them by the door near her bed would force him to get up and get them. He knew that she was always on hyper-alert and would be able to hear him if he got up to get them in the night. He realized that she definitely didn't trust him even though she kept asking him to trust her.

As he stood to walk toward the door, Cara studied him. He was large in stature, over six feet tall, but in many ways a very humble and gentle man. Conversely, though, he could kill a man with his bare hands in an instant. She watched him sit on the edge of the bed and begin lacing up his shoes. "Let me help you with your shirt," she offered. Yanking off the tags, she pulled the new shirt over his head and helped him ease into it.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"I'll be just a few moments in the shower. Finish up your coffee and Danish," Cara said.

He could hear the shower starting to run and steam coming through the crack she had left in the door. He reasoned that she hadn't completely closed the door so she could hear if he chose to leave without her. He had no intentions of doing that. The truth was, he needed her. He wasn't at full capacity, and he believed he had an ensuing blood battle ahead. He closed his eyes and sat against the headboard of the bed.

A little later, he jumped as he felt her warm hand on his arm.

"Sorry to have startled you. Were you sleeping?" Cara asked.

John opened his eyes and stared up at her with a perplexed expression. "I guess so. I didn't know I was still tired," he answered.

"Here, let me help you with this jacket," she offered. She had purchased a black cashmere blend three-quarter length jacket. It fit him perfectly.

"Thanks," John said, showing his discomfort on his facial expression.

Cara wasn't sure if he was in pain or uncomfortable with her taking care of him. Regardless, he was letting his guard down, she thought. This was a good sign. He was beginning to trust her again, she thought.

Cara gave him a quick, small smile and stated, "I'm ready to go. We should be there in a little over an hour."

John nodded, turning to walk toward the door.

"Here," Cara said, "Take these," holding out four more Ibuprofen she had fished out of her purse.

John took them from her hand and swallowed them with one last gulp of his coffee that had gotten cold.

As they traveled toward Northern Virginia, there were periods of silence between them. Cara was used to John's sullen demeanor. He had always been a man of few words.

As Cara drove the 12 mile stretch along Interstate 495 toward Langley, she knew it was time to prod John some more about what he knew about this man named Harold Finch.

"John," Cara started.

He turned to look at her. His eyes looked sleepy.

She continued, "How much do you know about the man you call Harold Finch?"

John's expression didn't change. His eyes remained steadfast, staring at her face.

"I'm just asking you to think about it. He's been using you. You're just a tool to him. He's been lying to you…you must see that," Cara stated.

"He doesn't lie to me," John defended.

"Come on, John. Wise up! I know you were hurt by the CIA," Cara interjected.

"No, Cara, it was you who shot me!" John yelled.

Cara slammed her fist on her car's steering wheel as she shouted, "I know, John! I have lived with that for over a year now!"

"Have you?" John questioned. "Because I have, too!"

Silence engulfed them for a few moments as their words hung throughout the car.

"Ultimately it was the CIA who double-crossed you! I was following my orders," Cara defended herself.

"I had the same orders...remember? he asked.

"Yes, I'm aware," she answered.

"Listen, Cara. I don't know what your game plan is here, but I'm going to get Harold out of there and back home. No one…including you…will stand in my way!" John shouted.

"Okay. So this is all I'm going to say on the matter. He's not who he says he is…who you think he is. You need to be cautious. He has the machine the Chinese built, and there are powerful people out there who want it back. They will stop at nothing to get it back. They will kill you, John, and not think twice about it," Cara warned.

"I'm aware," John answered.

"Are you really?" Cara asked.

John didn't dignify her question with an answer.

Cara turned onto Georgetown Pike toward Langley.

"I'm getting him back, Cara," John said softly.

They pulled in front of the George H W Bush Center for Intelligence. As usual, it was gated from the general public. Cara killed the car's engine.

John knew that the CIA had placed a star on that building with his name on it when they believed he had been killed in China. It was all a charade. "What's the plan, Cara?" he asked, continuing to stare ahead.

"John, I think you know," Cara answered.

John turned his head slowly toward her. As he had expected, she was pointing her Glock 22 at his left side.

"It's not what you think," she said.

"I think you have a gun pointed at me again," he responded. "What else is there?"

Cara started the car and whipped it in reverse then started heading toward Dolley Madison Boulevard to the self storage warehouse where Caroline was keeping Finch.

"Listen to me, John. I don't want to hurt you," Cara calmly said. "There's so much you don't know…so much you don't know about this man you call Harold Finch. He's got the machine, and we will get it from him…with or without your cooperation."

"How can you be so sure?" John asked.

"I need you to hear me out," she answered. "After the CIA tried to take us both out, I went underground for awhile. Several weeks ago I trapped Snow. He knows I have the laptop. He knows I hold the power."

"So what's your plan, Cara? What do you want with Finch and me?" John asked.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Cara asked.

John continued to stare at her.

She kept her Glock pointed at him as she turned into the self storage warehouse on Spring Gate Drive in McLean, VA.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Butts in Seats**

"What do you want with me?" John asked as Cara turned the key to shut off her car's engine.

"I want you to join us," Cara answered.

"Us?" John asked.

"Yes, you know her as Dr. Turning…Caroline Turning. When I turned the tables on Mark a few weeks ago, I used the laptop confiscated from China as leverage. The CIA will contract with me. They will pay dearly. They owe me…and they owe you, too. She has the expertise to bring them down, John. You can join us. You'll make more money than you've ever dreamed possible," Cara said.

John glared at her.

Cara could tell that John was angry. She was confident, though, that he wouldn't at the moment be able to piece together all the jagged edges of this puzzle to form a complete picture of what was going on. She wanted him to form enough of the picture so he would get where they needed him to be so they could get what they wanted. "John, this can be our way of getting the CIA to pay retribution to us," she said.

John laughed at the thought.

Both John and Cara had always known that many of the responsibilities and functions of the CIA are outsourced and privatized. Many senior officials and agents are hired one day to serve the government at a salary reasonable for government employees. Then, the next day they could be working for the private sector, doing the exact same job, making significantly more money than they made as government employees.

Often, no one ever really knew who was working for whom because they all passed Intel to Langley through the same pouch. Agents had always heard rumors that more than half of intelligence gatherers were actually contractors instead of governmental employees.

"What? If you can't beat them then join them?" John sarcastically asked.

"Yes, but joining them on our terms this time. They won't own us this way, John," Cara responded.

John was having a difficult time completely wrapping his head around this. As CIA agents, they both had taken a higher stance and believed serving their country was far greater than the size of their paychecks. They had selected a noble profession. They believed in what they were doing. They knew that their country needed them, and they obliged.

Cara had been a superb agent, and she had additional years of experience in the CIA than he did. She had been committed and dedicated. What had happened to her, he thought.

"Come on. Let's go to Harold," Cara said, still holding her Glock on him.

John got out of the vehicle and walked inside the self-storage warehouse. He wasn't sure where he should be heading but figured Cara would point him in the right direction. He could see Caroline in the distance standing behind the half-wooden-half-frosted-glass office door. He picked up his pace to walk toward her. She noticed him coming toward her and opened the door for him to enter.

Smiling an endearing smile at him, Caroline stated, "John, how lovely to see you again. I never did thank you for helping me with my little problem with HR. You were so brave, and I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Where's Finch?" John responded.

"Who? Harold? Oh, well, I'll get him for you shortly. But in the time being, let's chat," Caroline said.

John looked around to scope out exits, additional people, weapons…anything else that may be a deterrent or useful. He didn't know where Cara had gone.

"You know I can kill you," John flatly stated.

"That's amusing, John," Caroline said. "You're quite the hero, aren't you? Honestly, I didn't think you would make it out of that hotel. But then that's when we realized how valuable you could be."

"For what?" John asked.

"For this…" Was all John heard as suddenly everything went black.

The two women dragged him across the floor against the wall. Cara pushed him on his side and put the handcuffs back on his wrists. She blocked any emotion from rising to the surface as she chained his handcuffs to a metal pole connected to the wall.

A little later Caroline forcibly pushed Harold into the room and shoved him down onto a chair. At first he didn't notice John chained to the wall until Caroline went over and kicked him in his shins to awaken him.

John struggled to open his eyes.

The strike to the back of his head brought back his headache full force. Then he saw Harold sitting in a chair in the middle of the room. "You okay Harold?" Reese asked.

Harold thought his question was odd considering he was the one who had been passed out and was chained to a wall. "I'm just fine," he said, putting emphasis on the word "fine" while scowling up at Caroline.

Caroline stood in front, John noted. She must have been the lead agent so to speak. It was unlike Cara to allow someone else to be in control. He couldn't figure them out. Cara stood between Reese and Finch with her Glock still drawn. Then, Caroline got directly down in Finch's face. "Okay Harold, so you claim to know nothing about The Machine when we know you were the creator. You say you don't know whether or not Nathan is still alive when we know his body was never found. You claim you weren't the one who stole the machine from the Chinese," Caroline taunted.

"I had nothing to do with that," Finch timidly stated.

"Yes, I've been hearing that from you," Caroline answered. "Well, let's see how well you stick to your story if your partner were to suddenly find himself in a difficult situation."

Finch's mouth fell open as he turned his head toward John. John's expression didn't change.

"Don't let them break you, Finch," John stated.

"I think it's a little too late for that, Mr. Reese," Finch answered.

Caroline nodded to Cara. Within seconds, Cara walked up to John and hit him across the cheek with her gun. Blood trickled down his face. Cara turned away from him.

"I don't have it!" Harold shouted.

Caroline then walked over to Reese with a knife that she painstakingly pulled out from its base, exposing the razor-sharp blade.

Reese appeared to be watching her, but his eyes were dull and vacant. Cara recognized that he was taking his mind to another place.

Caroline knelt down beside Reese. He smiled up at her. His composure infuriated her, but Cara had warned her that John Reese was resilient. Pulling his coat away from his left shoulder, Caroline cut his shirt from the neck to the arm, exposing the bandages that Cara had applied the night before to his gunshot wound.

Reese concentrated on his breathing.

"What do you want from me? Finch yelled. "I told you I don't have it!" It was obvious from Finch's voice that he was getting more nervous about what might be happening to his partner.

"You know you can stop this," Cara said to Finch, not moving her position between the two men. "Tell us the truth."

Caroline got up and walked over to Cara. They caught one another's eyes. Then she held out her hand palm up to Cara, saying nothing. Caroline gave Cara a wide smile.

Cara then reluctantly yielded her Glock to Caroline.

Within a few seconds, Cara turned to walk back over to where John was sitting. She knelt back down beside him. She then smiled demurely at him.

John returned Caroline's smile. Then he moved his eyes up toward Cara. He and Cara stared at each other.

Cara eventually shifted her eyes back to Finch. She noticed that his hands were shaking even harder.

Caroline then wedged Cara's Glock between John's head and the wall then used the muzzle to push his head down toward his lap to give her access to his wounded shoulder.

"What are you planning to do?" Finch nervously asked.

Cara remained standing in the same position even though it was apparent to Finch from Cara's facial expression that Caroline was going off script. She looked ill at ease.

With his head down and the Glock pressed tightly against the back of his skull, John had no idea what Caroline was planning to do. He began running through his options, reasoning that she was planning to kill him but wanted to have a little fun first. He knew that Harold was probably ready to pass out.

Taking the knife with her other hand, Caroline slowly and gracefully began picking at the bandage's adhesive to remove it from his skin and expose his wound. Once the bandage was removed, Caroline peered at the wound as if she were a scientist studying a specimen.

John could feel her breath on his exposed shoulder.

"This isn't necessary," Harold stammered.

Within a moment, Caroline jammed her index finger into the healing hole in John's shoulder left by the CIA bullet the day before.

John had been caught off guard. "Shit!" he screamed. The pain was intense. He tried to sit back up, but Caroline pushed the back of his head back down with the muzzle of the Glock.

Harold tried to get up off the chair to go to Reese, but Cara pushed him back down. He stumbled and hit the floor. His spinal cord injury was hurting having been off his pain medications for almost two days now. He knew the pain he was feeling, though, paled in comparison to what his partner must have been through and was having to endure at this moment.

John composed himself, inhaled deeply, and then began gritting his teeth against the pain.

"Tell me about Nathan," Caroline said. "I know he's still alive." She turned to face Harold. John's blood covered her index finger. She dipped the Glock down toward John's lap and then pressed its muzzle against his forehead to force his head back up until it went flush against the wall.

John was slightly panting, hoping he could soon block out the pain.

"Tell me, Harold. I know you and Nathan have the machine that the Chinese built," Caroline taunted.

"Nathan is dead. I have no machine," Harold softly spoke. His tone of voice sounded as though he had already accepted defeat.

Caroline stood up and walked over to the wall behind John and then reemerged with a large wooden stick. Looking like a baseball player, she positioned herself to hit John across his stomach. "Is that the story you're sticking to?" she agitatedly asked Finch. Allowing no time for him to answer, she struck John across his ribs.

John grunted and then panted even harder, struggling to catch his breath. He lay his head against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, trying to discipline his breathing.

"Let's leave them to strategize and get their stories straight," Cara suggested to Caroline.

Caroline was confused by this move but relented. She figured that Cara actually needed to confer with her.

"John, talk to him. We will torture and then kill you if he won't give us the answers we're seeking," Cara cautioned.

He understood that what she meant was that he was expendable but Finch was not...at least for now. He knew they intended to use Finch until he had no more value to them. That's how he and Cara had been trained. Further, he recognized crazy when he saw it, and Caroline definitely fit that category. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted you," John stated, locking eyes with Cara again. Two could play this game, he thought.

Cara was surprised by his statement, having been unaware that he had actually trusted her. "What choice did you have?" Cara answered as she turned and followed Caroline out of the door.

As the two women closed the door behind them, Reese and Finch could hear them talking but couldn't decipher what they were saying.

Finch got up and scuttled over to Reese. "I know I don't have to ask how you're doing…I can tell," Finch awkwardly stated.

"I'm still alive," Reese answered.

"Not for long if we can't get out of here," Finch replied.

John nodded then whispered, "Find me a wire or paper clip…anything that I can use to get out of these cuffs."

"They may be watching," Harold said.

"Then be discreet," John sarcastically responded.

"Oh...okay," Finch said, and he got up and began looking around the room. He located a desk then looked toward the glass to see if the women's silhouettes were still there. They weren't. He quietly began rummaging through the desk drawers and located a stack of papers bound together by a paperclip. He pulled the paperclip off of the papers then slid it across the floor to John.

John put his leg down on top of the paperclip to inconspicuously try and get it into his hands cuffed behind his back as soon as he possibly could.

As John moved, his jacket opened to completely reveal the blood loss from his shoulder saturating his shirt. "She shot you?" Finch asked.

"CIA," John answered. "I presume that's who they were."

"Who are these ladies working for then?" Finch asked.

"For the CIA…for themselves," Reese answered. "There are actually more people contracted through the CIA than who are actually CIA."

Finch stared at him wide-eyed, saying nothing. He already knew how intelligence worked in the United States.

"It's all about the money. These people don't care about what's right and good for the American people. They just care about their bank accounts. Our government has done this, so I guess it's hard to blame the people for taking advantage of the situation," John stated.

Finch answered, "So what do they want with me and you?"

John could tell that his boss was extremely nervous. His eyes were shifty, and his hands were shaking a little. "They want The Machine. I haven't quite figured out what they intend to do with it, though. Maybe the mission of the CIA is…"

Finch interrupted, "Is to kill most people associated with The Machine to keep its existence quiet. So why keep us alive and bring us here?"

"I think they have a mission of their own. They want The Machine. I think it's all about greed," Reese said.

Finch stared at Reese. His eyes became larger and showed his fright. Then he said after a short pause, "I'm so sorry I've gotten you mixed up in all this."

"I knew what I was getting myself into, Harold. I know they are only using me to get at you, but Harold, I'd rather die this way than go out their way," John serenely stated.

Finch had always respected this man, but at that moment, his admiration deepened.

The two women had returned to the other side of the glass. They could hear the men whispering but couldn't make out what they were saying or doing. They then burst back through the door.

"You gentlemen have had enough time to figure out your next move," Cara stated.

"Really?" John answered. "It seems like you were just here."

Finch couldn't believe John's suavity.

Caroline became incensed by his sarcasm.

Cara recalled why she had always been so attracted to him.

Picking up the wooden stick again, Caroline lifted it over her head and struck John on the left shoulder where his wound had almost stopped bleeding again.

John gritted his teeth. Finch knew better than to get up from the chair where he was seated again.

"So you want to play games with me, John? Is that right? You apparently aren't comprehending the seriousness of your situation," Caroline said. Her voice was cracking a little from her apparent anger toward John Reese.

"Okay, I get it," John answered. "You're dangerous. You can torture me. You're can kill me. You want The Machine the Chinese built. You think Nathan Ingram is alive. You want Harold here to give up what he knows. But, let me tell you this," John said as he took a pause in his oration.

"Yes?" Caroline asked.

"You know nothing. You are a miserable, little, self-absorbed, bitch," John answered.

Caroline became infuriated. She grabbed Cara's Glock back from her and struck John in his face with the gun's butt. A red mark appeared on his cheekbone under his eye. She looked back at Cara and motioned for her to take over with Reese. Handling Reese was Cara's responsibility.

Cara came forward. The blood and bruises on John's face and body disturbed her, and she didn't understand why. She then pushed that thought out of her mind as she spoke to him, "He's been lying to you." He knows everything about you. Ask yourself. What do you really know about him?"

"I know that he saved my life," John said.

Finch closed his eyes.

Cara stood up and backed away from John. She went over to Harold. "Tell him! Tell him that you know every detail of his life…from his mother to Ordos. Tell him!"

John squinted at Finch. They had never talked about their personal lives, but Finch had disclosed to him at the very beginning that he knew absolutely everything about him.

"I know what's been a matter of public record," Finch defended.

"Public record? Really? I think your knowledge goes well beyond public records!" Cara yelled. She then turned back to John. "John, how you can trust someone who knows everything about you but won't disclose anything about himself to you?"

John's mind was racing. "What does it matter?"

"It matters, John. He's been using you. He's no better than the CIA that deceived and tried to kill you," Cara stated.

Finch's mouth flew open.

"Harold Finch will never trust you because he's only using you. You're nothing but a mere tool in a much larger plan!" Cara stated. She was a master interrogator. She had always been able to break down their captives and get them to talk before she would put a bullet through their brains.

John knew her strategy and believed he could beat it.

"You might think you are friends…but you are not. He does not trust you," Cara calmly said.

Harold continued to sit there. The horrified expression on his face disclosed that she was getting to him. John's resolute expressionless face told her that she had a lot more work ahead of her to break down John Reese.

After a few minutes, John responded, "Trust is hard to come by, Cara."

Cara paused then smiled. Looking over at Finch while kneeling down by John's side, she said, "Ask him, John. Ask him why it was you who he hunted down and employed. He went to great trouble to find you. Ask him!"

John turned his head to look at Harold. His brow was furrowed, but he said nothing.

"Because he was the one who told Snow we knew about the machine," Cara said, answering her own question. "He was a contractor for years with the CIA as an anonymous source…a spy! Our government paid him to spy on the American people. How do you think he made most of his money? A computer programmer? Insurance Broker? Come on, John!"

John's mind continued racing. He didn't know exactly what to think.

"Who do you think gave me that picture of you and your ex-girlfriend in the airport when we first started working together?" Cara asked. "He was my anonymous source for years!"

John remembered his first meeting with Cara in Hungary. That was back in 2006 when he made the transition from Delta Force to the CIA. He remembered opening the envelope to reveal the picture of him and Jessica in the airport. He had always wondered but never asked how she had come to have that photograph of him as he was in transit.

It was Harold Finch.

He was an anonymous source for the CIA.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Taking the Gloves Off**

"Let me explain, John!" Finch yelled.

Caroline struck Finch across his face, bloodying his nose. "What's there to explain, Harold?" she mockingly asked. She knew Cara's little strategy was beginning to work. They were beginning to divide John and Harold.

John turned to look at Harold and then back to Cara.

"He sold us out, John," Cara said. "He was the one who told Snow we had been compromised.

"It was only you!" Finch yelled.

John let down his guard. His face became ashen. "What?" he murmured.

Finch turned around to look at John. He had seen that expression before when the number they had worked so hard to save was actually the perpetrator and not the victim. "John, let me explain, please," he begged.

"Explain…ha! How can one explain being responsible for an innocent woman's death?" Caroline scorned.

"What?" Finch asked, his tone of voice showing his total disbelief.

"Because of your Intel, we were sent on a death mission. John then was unable to go to Jessica to save her," Cara said. "How much did they pay you for that? How much was Jessica's life worth?"

Finch could see John pulling on his cuffs chained to the wall. He apparently hadn't yet been able to get himself free of them. He was slightly relieved because he believed that John Reese had the ability to snap him like a twig.

John realized Cara's strategy and reason for leaving them, but Harold wasn't denying that he had been paid by the CIA to actually spy on the American people…including him. Harold was a spy for the CIA! Harold was the reason he had been sent to China. Harold was the reason he couldn't get to Jessie to save her. Who was this multi-layered, idiosyncratic, little man who had hired him to save people from The Machine's Irrelevant List? John kept thinking.

"John, you have to believe me!" Harold yelled. "I tried telling them to let you go…that you hadn't been compromised. I begged them to let you go to her."

Tears formed in the bottom of John's bloodshot eyes.

"She came up on the Irrelevant List. I knew she was in trouble and that you loved her. I begged them, John," Harold pleadingly said. "I knew that it was only Cara who knew about The Machine, who had been compromised. That was when the CIA put it together. That was when they knew that my MIT friend, Nathan Ingram, wasn't the only one behind The Machine. He had accidentally said that eight knew about The Machine, and they knew it should have been only seven. That's when they pieced together that I was also behind The Machine. That's when they tried to kill us. John, I need you to believe me…" Harold begged.

Then suddenly Caroline struck Finch across his mouth to try and shut him up.

"Don't you see, John," Cara interjected. "There's so much to this man that you presumably trust that you have no idea about. He killed Jessica. He might as well have broken her neck himself."

John sat motionless with his back against the wall. His eyes were heavy with pain and fatigue.

"John, I had tried to save her. They tried to kill me, so I couldn't get to her in time," Harold said in a low tone.

"You contracted with the CIA? You were a spy?" John asked.

"I prefer surveillance officer…but…yes…I guess…you could say…technically…a…spy," Harold answered.

"How?" John asked. "How could you not tell me this?"

"It's so complicated, John. I had told you that prior to 9-11 I spent the better part of my life making money…and then suddenly it all seemed irrelevant," Harold answered.

"Why? Because of Nathan…because of Jessie?" John asked, his tone of voice giving away his complete shock.

Harold quietly said, "Yes…I tried to save her. I went to New Rochelle to try and save her for you, but they tried to eliminate Nathan and me. I was injured and was too late to save her. I was there that February morning in the hospital when that nurse told you that Jessica had been killed. I was still in the hospital recovering from my accident. I know you don't remember bumping into me, but I was there. I tried to get to her."

"Enough!" Cara screamed. She could see that the bond between the two men was more challenging to break than she had anticipated.

"You bumped into me on your way out. I was too late…" Harold repeated.

"Oh my God," John whispered, tears running down his bruised and bloody face.

"I am so sorry, John. I vowed right then that I would do everything in my power to try to save you. I am so very sorry."

Harold looked over at John. "It was my greed that killed Jessica and made them go after Nathan and me," Harold stated.

Caroline could no longer control her anger. "He's useless to us!" she screamed to Cara. "Resolve this now!" She abruptly went over to Finch and grabbed him and the chair he was forced to sit in and began pushing him toward the door.

"I will spend the rest of my life making amends to you, John!" Harold screamed as he disappeared through the door with Caroline.

John could see Caroline leaning down into Harold's face through the frosted-glass window. He imagined that Harold looked like a frightened little rabbit caught in a trap.

Caroline had forcibly pushed Harold into the chair. "You are my only worthy opponent," she stated. "John there," she said as she turned her head to where he was sitting inside the office area, "is expendable…just like your former partner, Nathan. But you, on the other hand…you are worthy."

Harold's eyes revealed his utter disbelief in what was happening. "Worthy of what?" he asked.

"Worthy of my partnership," Caroline answered.

Caroline continued, "I know money at one time meant a great deal to you, but now you are on a mission for justice and repentance. No amount of money can replace those things. But, Mr. Finch, your life…your life is worth any amount of money you could gain from our mission…right?"

"I would rather die than help you," Finch answered.

"Don't be too hasty," Caroline replied. "I know what you do, but most of all, I know that the knowledge you have access to on each American citizen is vast. With that knowledge comes power. Corwin was right. The Machine is God."

"You are wrong, Ms. Turing…or whatever your real name is. The Machine is just a machine. It is the people behind The Machine who are the culprits. I should have known that humans do not have the capacity to effectively handle power," Finch answered.

Caroline stared at the small, frail man below her and stated, "You can do far greater work than you could have ever hoped to do if you come from outside the shadows to work with me. You are my only worthy opponent, but you could be my ally. We can learn to trust one another."

Finch laughed aloud, "Trust, now that's a funny thing for you to say to the person you kidnapped, held at gun point, and beat."

"If you choose correctly, then you can live. We can eliminate Stanton out of this equation. If you want to keep your bodyguard, then so be it. I will let him live. I see that he is quite useful to have around. His life…such that it is…and yours as well…are truly up to you."

"I'm not so sure," Finch responded.

Caroline was getting frustrated with him. She needed Cara...Cara could break him.

"Mr. Reese is a good man and has been a victim in all this. He has nothing to do with this. Let him go, and I will tell you…or give you…what you want," Finch negotiated.

Cara looked through the frosted-glass of the door that separated them and Cara and John. She could see Cara down in John's face.

Inside the office, Cara knelt down and kissed him for several moments on his lips. As an interrogator, she liked to use the limitations of physical space to her advantage.

John didn't reciprocate her kiss but instead sat very still, eyes open. Not moving his head, though, he had allowed her lips to be on his. But, he was unsure how to respond. He couldn't figure her out… couldn't figure out his exact feelings for this woman whom he had spent so much time and emotion with during his four year stint with the CIA. He felt a strong sense of obligation toward her for teaching him so much and for helping and protecting him on numerous occasions.

Cara then spoke in a calm manner, "I didn't want to have to do this, John…but she's giving me no other choice. We could have all worked together. You were a great agent, and you can still be one…only for hire."

"Over my dead body," John slowly answered.

"You know that's being arranged," Cara stated.

"I know that everyone has a choice, Cara. I know trust and commitment apparently mean nothing to you," John answered. "We were great partners. We saved one another's lives on numerous occasions. You taught me a lot. I believed in what I was called to do. I believed in my government. You had told me that what we were doing was right…that the threat was real. I was just too stupid to realize that you were actually the threat."

Cara said nothing in response. She looked away from him.

"Now, all I have is that man your new partner has imprisoned on the other side of that door," John concluded.

Cara looked back at John. She then pointed her Glock directly at his forehead. Her facial expression had changed to anger. Even though she and Caroline were only using John to get at Harold, she had thought at one moment that maybe she and John could work together again. Now it was too late.

John closed his eyes.

Without warning, she lifted her Glock and struck him on the side of his head.

John slumped over in pain.

"Why are you protecting him, John?" Cara asked. "He killed your ex-girlfriend. The CIA cared nothing about us. They used us until they had no more use for us. They…"

"You were compromised, Cara. That made us, as partners, compromised," John interrupted.

"So, as compromised agents, we will either have to beat them or join them. Right? I am holding an ace, John…the laptop. If we are working together, then we can stand together against the CIA," Cara said.

"As long as you have the laptop," John reminded.

"There will come a day…and I suspect sooner than later…that they will get it from you, and you'll be irrelevant…a liability…to them again," John stated in a low, whispery voice.

"It doesn't have to be this way. All this…it was her idea. We can eliminate her and work together again. We can make a killing," Cara offered.

"A killing," John laughed at the irony of her word choice. "Literally and figuratively, eh?"

Cara hadn't immediately realized her poor choice of words. "Yes," she answered.

John continued to stare at her. He could hear Caroline yelling at Finch from behind the door.

"End this now!" Caroline screamed to Cara from the other side of the door. She was beginning to become nervous about the conversation occurring behind the door between her partner and her partner's ex-partner. She and Cara didn't know each other well enough to trust one another completely. She knew that Cara and John had a history. She also knew that she could easily eliminate Cara out of the equation, and she believed that Cara most likely felt the same way about her.

John began evaluating his options. "Cara," he softly spoke. "Do you know the trouble with people who join together with self-centered and greedy intentions?"

Cara looked at him, not altering her facial expression. She was supposed to be the master interrogator. She refused to answer John's question.

John stated, "They really can never fully trust one another. She's probably over there selling you out, too."

Cara looked directly into his deep-set blue eyes. She knew he was right. Then her brain clicked back into Interrogator mode. She hadn't realized that John was as adept at interrogation as he was.

"I'm sorry to have to do this," John whispered after several moments.

Cara's facial expression changed to bewilderment.

Then suddenly John head-butted her. Cara's Glock went flying as she fell backwards. He had finally been able to free himself from the handcuffs and was shaking them off his wrists. They dangled from the chain still connected to the wall.

Cara lay sprawled out on the floor.

John quietly approached the wooden and frosted-glass door. He could see the silhouette of the back of Caroline's head and Finch seated in the chair. John knew that Finch was helpless to the tough, wispy woman who stood before him.

Protesting his dominant hand from further injury, he suddenly thrust his right hand through the glass and grabbed Caroline by the back of her neck. The sudden motion caught her off guard. Finch apparently hadn't expected John to burst through either because his expression of horror intensified on his face.

John threw Caroline to the floor and then burst through the door to get to Caroline to finish the job. Caroline was beginning to get herself up off the floor. John hated hitting women. He had killed a lot of people in his life, but striking a woman always stayed with him. This case was no different even though Caroline had wreaked havoc on Finch and him. John grabbed her with his hands by her throat and began choking her. Caroline stared directly at him. As the life was escaping out of her, her deep brown eyes began to fade and get glassy.

"Mr. Reese!" he heard Finch yell from behind him.

He thought that Finch was trying to tell him not to choke the life out of Caroline…that they were in the business of saving not killing.

But then he felt the hard steel against the back of his head.

"Let her go," Cara flatly stated.

John loosened his grip. Caroline fell to the floor. She coughed and panted and then in a few moments sat up.

In her usual authoritarian voice, she throatily stated, "End this now! Take this piece of garbage out once and for all!"

"No!" Finch yelled. "I'll do what you want. Leave him out of this."

"I said end this!" Caroline yelled, holding her throat at John's bloody imprints where he had tried to choke her. "He is useless to us…what the hell are you waiting for?"

Cara stood motionless. Her Glock continued to press into the back of John's head. Blood escaped from the jagged cuts on his right hand and fell to the floor.

"Don't tell me you have feelings for this ignorant tool?" Caroline taunted.

John could still feel the pressure of the Glock on his head.

Finch's heart beat rapidly. He was frightened for Reese. He was sorry he had dragged him into this mess. He would have been better off living in the homeless encampment, drinking himself to death, Finch thought.

"Give me the damn gun, and I'll do it myself!" Caroline screamed at Cara.

Then, John heard the shot before he actually felt any impact of a bullet. His heart didn't have time to increase its beating pattern. His hearing became muffled.

Then his heart began racing, but he continued to feel nothing.

Catching in peripheral vision Caroline falling to the floor, John turned around to look at Cara. Her gun blast had landed squarely in Caroline's heart.

John and Cara caught one another's eyes. Neither one knew what to say in that instance.

John couldn't anticipate Cara's next move. He gave her an inquisitive look.

Cara began looking at the floor. Then she whispered, "All in due time, John. All in due time."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Backdoor**

John wasn't entirely sure what Cara was intending from her words. But for now, his main focus was getting Finch and himself out of the self-storage warehouse and back home. He then jumped forward and grabbed Harold off the chair. "Come on," he raspily ordered. Blood from his hand smeared on the back of Finch's jacket.

As they ran down through the warehouse, Finch spotted a backdoor exit. "This way, John," he whispered.

They headed toward the backdoor exit and emerged out into the parking area.

"My car is here somewhere," Finch said, a little disoriented by the events of late.

"Over there," John said, pointing to Finch's car sitting alone in the parking area off to the side.

As they got to the car, Finch pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket then stated, "I'll drive, John. I'm in better shape than you."

John got in the passenger side as Harold started his car and began heading back toward New York City. The trip would be long, and they were tired and weary. But they both wanted to drive straight on back to the place they both now regarded as home.

Finch could see John trying to stop the blood flow from the cuts on his hand by using the bottom of his shirt to wrap around it and apply pressure. "Do you want me to stop?" Finch asked.

"No," John answered. "I want to go home."

An hour into their journey, Reese broke their silence, "I'm in pretty deep right now, Harold."

"Do you trust me, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked.

John paused, considering his question.

Without waiting for his answer, Finch offered, "I guess as much as a man who has been deceived so greatly from everyone in his life—all of his life—could possibly trust another human being."

Reese remained quiet. The truth was, he did trust Harold Finch. He respected the man and had grown to actually like him.

Inhaling deeply, John asked, "How much do you actually know about me, Mr. Finch?"

"I know you have no father listed on your birth certificate. I know your grandfather was the only one who cared for you when you were a baby, but he died when you were just a little boy," Harold said.

"I was four," John interjected.

Finch continued, "I know your grandmother took your mother to court on eight separate occasions to force her to take custody of you."

John swallowed hard.

Finch continued, "I know your grandmother was a detached, bitter woman who made you to work every single day in that little grocery store. I know that when she died, the Department of Social Services took you to your mother, but that didn't last long because your stepfather accused you of attacking him. I know you were just trying to defend your mother from your stepfather's abuse."

John found it difficult to hear his life encapsulated and spoken aloud by Harold in just a few sentences.

Harold continued, "I know your mother died while you were away at military school. I know you tried for two and a half years to find your biological father, but to this day, you still don't know who he is."

"Do you?" John interrupted.

"I told you that I know absolutely everything about you, John," Harold answered.

The magnitude of Harold's words struck him.

"John, I also know that the CIA charted your fate long before you had ever considered joining the Delta Force. I know about your missions...the things they made you do...the things you and Cara did in the name of National Intelligence," Harold stated.

John dropped his head.

"I know that you came to have doubts. John, you must understand that the United States government capitalizes on people like. You were absolutely perfect for the military service," Harold concluded.

"So you're saying that we're all pawns?" Reese asked.

"You, along with many, many of your counterparts who have been groomed from the very beginning of their military careers, have been used, lied to, and deceived," Finch answered. "Why do you think the American government recruits people like you?"

"Like me?" Reese asked.

"Yes, people with no connections, no family," Finch answered. "And the few connections you do have...well...you're told to eliminate them. Unconnected people have no one who will miss them…no one to question…when they cease to exist. They are expendable."

John swallowed hard against the lump that had arisen in his throat.

As Harold stared deeply into John, he could see John's physical reaction to his words. He saw John's facial expression change to vacant. He continued to press forward, "We have a lot in common, John. Prior to last year, we both could have been killed and there would have been no family…no…friends… to know or care."

John inhaled deeply again.

"Together, we are stronger...strong," Harold stated. "This whole governmental conspiracy is unimaginably huge. It's a picture far greater than you could ever fathom."

As Harold studied John—his battered face, bloody hand, blood-soaked shirt…everything about John Reese at that moment—he began to feel an overwhelming sense of obligation toward his partner. Finch stated as he turned back to look at the road ahead, "When I first created The Machine, my friend Nathan Ingram was the front for our company."

John already knew about Nathan Ingram but remained silent so Finch wouldn't know that he had been digging up information on him.

"Nathan knew what we had been asked to do but couldn't live with the countless lives showing up on the Irrelevant List who were carelessly tossed aside at midnight each night. So it was Nathan who built the contingency code. At first I didn't care. My work building The Machine and gathering Intel for the CIA had trapped me within the chains of power and greed. I then lost everything, John…and it was all my fault. Innocent people were hurt because of me."

Silence engulfed them again.

Reese broke the silence and stated, "Harold, this is what I know."

"Yes?" Finch asked.

John said, "I know you tried to help Jessica. I know you feel remorse for not being able to do so." He paused for a few moments to collect himself. "I also know you saved my life."

"Thank you, John," Harold whispered.

John continued, "Thank you for trying to save her. Thank you for giving me a second chance."

Finch had a wave of emotions come over him. He saw from his peripheral vision John lean his head against the window.

Another 20 minutes of silence hung between them.

John lifted his head to look at the road through the car's windshield. "This is what I believe," he stated.

"Okay…" Finch answered.

"You don't have to confirm or deny anything, Mr. Finch. This is just what I have concluded," Reese said.

"Alright…go ahead," Finch responded.

John continued, "I believe you and Nathan have the drives the Chinese built and that he is still alive and at the backdoor feeding you information. But, I believe that even though the machine has its own level of intelligence, it is actually your intelligence that is The Machine."

Finch stared at the road ahead.

"The government can't control it because they can't understand it. Hell, who could really understand how that mind of yours works?" John said.

Finch turned around and gave John a smile.

"That's why the CIA came after you. They figured that out. They realized that their little anonymous source all those years was actually the intelligence behind the all-powerful machine they had contracted Nathan to build. So, once they figured out you were the actual creator…the sysadmin…the main intelligence…of The Machine, they tried to get to you—not to kill you—but to enslave you…to own you. Just like they owned me all those years," Reese concluded.

Finch turned to look at Reese.

"Nathan was in their way…was expendable," Reese stated.

"Yes," Finch confirmed.

Reese continued, "So, I believe that what's happening here is that this country is pretty damn close to fascism. Certain elements of our government are completely out of control. Take the NSA. It has the ability to tap into billions of correspondences every day from the American public but not the intelligence to make sense of it. So that's where The Machine came in to play."

Finch unintentionally accelerated his car.

John could hear the car's engine revving. He paused then added, "From what I've been able to surmise…I now understand that by its very structure, our supposed democratic government—or rather the legislative branch—has an unbalanced portion of power. It is also at the mercy and whim of a small minority of people in order to get reelected. And, people have this basic, excessive drive for wealth. You know that to be true, don't you Mr. Finch?"

"Yes," Finch answered.

"You've been providing me with little bits and pieces all along, haven't you Harold?" John asked.

"You've been doing your homework, Mr. Reese," Finch responded.

"I can read," Reese answered sarcastically.

"Yes you can," Finch answered, shaking his head up and down, displaying a small smile on his face. After a few minutes, Finch added, "Good for you, John."

"I didn't think that those particular books you brought for me to read when I was sidelined was inadvertent," Reese said.

"No they weren't" Finch stated. 'So let's connect a few more dots, then."

John turned to face Harold, turning up the left side of his mouth into a half-smile, revealing his uncertainty.

"It's so much bigger than anyone could ever imagine possible," Harold stated.

"Except you," John stated as he glanced back over at Finch.

Finch continued, "So, let me ask you this, Mr. Reese."

"Okay," John answered.

"Why do you think immediately upon taking office—eight months before the towers came down—the second George Bush pushed forward legislation called _No Child Left Behind_?"

John furrowed his brow. "I don't know. Why?" he asked.

"You already know that national intelligence is for the most part mainly privatized. You have seen and experienced the human being's inability to handle any amount of power…their sheer greediness and…well…self-centeredness."

"Yes," John answered.

"Our government is at the heart of the largest conspiracy ever concocted in this country," Finch agitatedly stated.

"Are you planning to connect those dots, Harold?" John sarcastically asked.

Harold let out a single laugh then stated, "This all started well before 9-11. They just used 9-11 as an excuse to justify their work."

John cocked his head to the side. "Okay…please quit stalling," John stated.

"_No Child Left Behind_, the legislation that is said to be about setting high standards and establishing measurable goals to improve public education," Harold started.

"Yes?" John asked.

"Well, _No Child Left Behind_ expanded the federal government's role in public education," Finch stated. "And has left proportionately more children behind now than ever in the history of public education. Schools have just gotten crafty in how they hide them."

John was struggling with understanding how all these pieces fit together.

Finch could see John's inability to comprehend what he was saying. Then he added, "It's about creating unthinking, ignorant people who won't have the capacity to think or ask questions."

John shook his head. "What?" he asked.

"It's not about federal standards to improve our educational system or ensuring that all children learn," Finch added. "Think about this. Where do the top minority send their children and grandchildren to school?"

"This is crazy," Reese stated.

"They are breeding and educating their own to take over one day while dumbing down the majority." Finch exclaimed.

"You know how you sound, don't you Harold?" Reese asked.

"Yes, but I know the truth," Harold answered.

John took in a deep breath.

"There will eventually be only two classes of people. We're seeing it now, aren't we? This whole downward spiral in our economy is a farce...smoking mirrors. The division between the rich and the poor grows larger every day. You know it because you lived in it before you came to work for me. Those people are truly the victims in all this."

"But I guess they're smart enough not to buy into all this," Reese stated.

"Touché," Finch responded.

John squinted at Harold. "This is too much," he said.

"I know," Finch answered.

"You sound like a paranoid extremist. Education…the economy…The Machine?" Reese interjected.

"Only the paranoid survive, Mr. Reese," Finch stated.

John had heard Harold make that statement on several occasions prior. "I believe you, Harold," John answered. "What the hell do they want? What's the sum total?" John asked.

"In due time," Finch answered.

Reese turned back to look at Finch. He recognized those words, the very last words Cara had uttered to him before they left the warehouse. He knew that Finch was smart enough not to carelessly drop them on him. He then realized that Cara was deeper connected than he had believed.

John couldn't fathom the affect the depth of Harold's knowledge had to have on him. He couldn't fathom the guilt he must feel…and the willpower he had to have not to be sucked back in to the power. He continued, "I believe that not only does vast knowledge and power cause corruption, but also in this case, it is deadly. I believe that you came to realize that our government wasn't planning to use The Machine as you had intended. I believe that you came to see that most human beings simply don't have the capacity to properly handle power because you yourself had fallen prey to its charms."

"Yes…that's true," Harold confirmed. "Once people get a little power, it's like a drug. It eats at them, changing them, damaging them."

John interrupted, "So all this is about a few people who don't have the capacity to do the right thing."

"If what you suppose is correct, then you must know that upon my demise, you will be told everything," Finch answered. "I believe you have the capacity to do the right thing."

Reese glanced over at Finch who was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"It's okay, Harold," John said. "I understand."

Then there was another long pause between them.

Finch continued to speed back toward New York. He could tell that Reese's eyes were half-closed, but he was fighting sleep. Finch wondered what Reese could possibly be thinking about at that moment.

Then finally Reese broke the silence, "Are we really making a difference, then? Does our little mission of saving people on the Irrelevant List really matter?"

Finch paused, breathed in deeply, then answered, "In regards to the much bigger picture…I'm not sure."

Reese closed his eyes and sighed.

Finch continued, "But it does matter to the one person we save. I hope it will matter in the long run."

John opened his eyes and turned to look at Harold, a look of recognition on his face. "That one person could ultimately be the one who saves this country from itself," John added.

Finch smiled at Reese. Then, dropping his smile, he stated, "I know this is hard for you not knowing everything. I also know that like a good operative, you are spying on me and are locating bits and pieces all along. Like I said before, be careful what you look for because you may find it."

John smiled at the road ahead.

"What we have been doing is very important, Mr. Reese," Finch said.

John closed his eyes.

"When we get back to New York City, you can walk away. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"Harold," Reese calmly stated in his low whispery voice, opening his eyes and turning to look directly at Harold, "Like you said, what we're doing is important. We have a lot of work ahead of us."

"Finch exhaled, "The numbers keep coming, don't they, Mr. Reese?"

"They keep coming," John answered.

"I need you to know this," Finch added. "I have certainly not disclosed everything to you, but I promise I won't lie to you…or betray you…like everyone else has," Finch stated.

They were both quiet for a few moments.

Then John answered, "I know, Harold. I trust you."

Harold smiled. He continued driving toward New York City with John by his side.

They had a lot of work ahead of them.

THE END

6


End file.
